


go ahead and watch my heart burn

by Kangoo



Series: but first they must catch you [2]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Begging, Gen, Held at Gunpoint, but not in a sexy way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 05:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20237848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: pride's never saved anyone





	go ahead and watch my heart burn

**Author's Note:**

> it's the second time i write about shin trying to kill occam. at this point it's basically foreplay to them
> 
> title is from billie eilish's "burn"

_Click_

There isn’t a single sound in the world Occam knows better than the sound of a gun cocking. What they’re not used to is hearing it so close to them, the hard touch of the barrel pressed against the back of their head. They want to think that’s why their first reaction is to freeze, a deer in the headlights, rather than retaliate. Vitale should have warned them, hell, they should haveheard something, _noticed_ something—

“Get up,” a voice rumbles, low and dangerous. “Hands up and away from the gun.”

It takes them a second to register the order, another to unlock their muscles to move. The gun doesn’t waver. They slowly, pointedly, let go of their rifle. Getting up is awkward without their hands. They half crawl, half shuffle onto their knees.

“That’s enough.”

Occam stops, hands open and halfway to their head. They dart a glance to their rifle, but it’s too big for close-quarter use. Impossible to reach for their thigh and get their sidearm out before getting shot in the head. That’s the issue with being a sniper: you never know what to do with yourself when someone gets in melee range. It’s not a position fit for quick reactions.

A gloved hand appears in their field of view, take the sidearm out of its holster and throws it aside. It clatters against the ground, out of sight. Nimble fingers travel down their leg, take out the knives they keep in their boots, then up to the one hooked to their belt and the two hidden under their sleeves. Then the hand reaches around their chest, slipping under their cloak and jacket to take the two additional sidearms strapped under their armpits. All of them go to join the first of their spare weapons.

(Some might say they carry a lot of weapons, for a sniper. That’s without mentioning the scout rifle they usually carry along, the submachine gun laying at the bottom of their bag, the rocket launcher stashed in their ship. One can never take too many precautions.)

The stranger brushes his hand down their sides, checking for more hidden weapons. Once assured that Occam is well and truly disarmed, he steps around them, keeping his gun aimed straight at their head. He kicks their rifle away as he does. Occam winces. They care about this rifle almost as much as for their own life. It _is_ their life in many way: without it, they’d be dead a thousand times over. A little care wouldn’t go unappreciated.

Wisely, they decide not to voice that opinion.

The barrel of an unfamiliar yet well-known hand cannon hovers between their eyes. It radiates heat even in its dormant state, infused through-and-through by its wielder’s Light. Such power… Oh, what they wouldn’t do to get their hand on it.

Then again, seeking power is exactly what brought them to this time and place, being held hostage by one of the most powerful Guardians to ever live. There’s something to be said about _moderation_, they guess.

“Dredgen Khan,” the Renegade drawls.

A shiver runs down Occam’s spine. Nothing good ever comes out of the Man with the Golden Gun calling you _Dredgen_.

In their defense, they haven’t done anything Dredgen-y yet. Don’t intend to. They’re only interested in surviving, at any cost except their Ghost’s — killing it seems counterproductive. The title is mostly for show. Tradition. They’ve never even met another Dredgen, Drifter notwithstanding.

Part of them want to mention that. An attempt at pacifying. But they’re not sure it would make any difference and the whole point of the title is to keep them… somewhat anonymous. Their tamed Darkness separated from their Guardian identity. It’s just as useful as the helmet, in that regard.

“Are you here to kill me?” they only ask, voice kept even out of sheer willpower. There is a time and place to show vulnerability in the face of the enemy, and this isn’t it. The Renegade isn’t the kind to be swayed by fear. He reduced a man to a nuclear shadow with a single shot; such power isn’t held by a man who _hesitates_.

“Depends.”

Huh.

“Do you have a good reason why I shouldn’t?”

His hand flexes around his gun, the leather of his glove creaking at the slight movement. The sound seems almost loud in the perfect silence. Occam knows it’s their imagination more than anything else. The helmet muffles sounds, just the tiniest bit, just enough for someone very quiet to sneak up on them. Usually they have Vitale to warn them of incoming hostiles they might not have noticed. Somehow the Renegade managed to avoid her perimeter checks.

Mostly, it echoes, as enclosed spaces tend to do. Their breath is a sharp, animal noise, accompanied by the pounding of blood in their ears. Too loud. Hard to concentrate through — they work best in silence, nowadays. They get overwhelmed too easily by noises they can’t see the origin of.

“I—” the Renegade’s finger tenses briefly on the trigger at the unexpected sound of their voice and Occam trails off, thread lost with a sudden peak of fear. They inhale slowly, try again. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The Renegade scoffs. “If you got the title, you did _everything_ wrong. Playing with Darkness like you’re doing, that’s a crime in itself.”

Occam swallows through the lump in their throat. “I just wanted to get stronger. Strong enough to protect—”

“Cut the bullshit.”

Their mouth snaps shut. It’s not a lie: they really want to be stronger to protect… themself, mostly. But images come, unbidden — Drifter, eyes sparkling as he waves his chopsticks animatedly, caught in one story or another. Two accusative set of eyes, somehow blank with death and still burning with judgment, with resentment. Lot of things to protect in this galaxy. Lot of things they couldn’t save. That’s not a fate they’re eager to go through.

“Road to hell’s paved with good intentions, and there isn’t a single one of those in you,” he hisses. “Dredgen isn’t a title you stumble upon.”

He’s right, of course. Occam bite the inside of their cheek to ground themself, mind scrambling for a reply. But they don’t have all that many arguments — and none that would be sufficient for the Renegade. Their next words come out strangled, shaky with fear rising like the tide.

“Please.”

The Renegade draws short. He tilts his head to the side, inquisitive. “What?”

“Please, I— I’m sorry, I— Please don’t kill me,” they whisper in a rush. “Don’t kill me, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean to— I— I’ll do anything, I’ll turn in the others, I’ll help you— _anything_, I’ll do _anything_, please, I don’t want to _die—”_

A sharp intake of breath cut their rambling and they freeze, every muscle taunt, poised to jump away. Their survival instinct kicked in and jumped straight to _flight, _but there’s nowhere to go with a gun pointed at their face.

Then the Renegade clicks his tongue, contempt written in every line of his body. The gun falls away from Occam’s face. They drag in what feels like their first real breath in hours.

“You got nowhere to run,” he all but spits at them. “Remembers that, next time. One toe over the line—” _There won’t be enough left of you to bury in a thimble._

“_Thank you_,” they breath out, relief genuine, drowning out the fearful hate still simmering beneath their skin.

The Renegade disappears with a mutter of _pathetic _and the flash of a transmat, leaving no trace of his presence but the adrenaline flooding Occam’s veins with nowhere to go. They curl over themself, wrestling with their breathing, trying to push the panic attack down through sheer force of will. Their fingers claw at the release of their helmet and they rip it off, let it drop in their lap along hands suddenly heavy as lead, gulping great gasps of breath in-between silent sobs.

They’re not proud of themselves for breaking so easily. Been years since the last time they’ve been proud of anything that’s not their shooting or the number of days they survived, though. And pride— pride’s never saved anyone.

It not as comforting a thought as they’d like. Only as comforting as they deserve, they think. Then, they stumble to their feet, put their helmet back on despite the claustrophobic feeling twisting in their chest, and go to pick up their weapons.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact: despite their outrageous stash of knives and assorted weapons (and their cloak), occam is a titan! a very bad one


End file.
